


Hot and Cold

by patroclilles



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, also some homophobic language, i'm tryna channel mickey please forgive smh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2849744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patroclilles/pseuds/patroclilles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drunken hand holding and festive fun between our favorite boys. What's not to love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot and Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Destielixer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destielixer/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, [Joan](http://supremegayoverlord.tumblr.com)! I hope you enjoy your gift.

“It’s fucking _freezing_!” Ian grits through chattering teeth as he and Mickey walk down the Gallaghers’ front steps, away from the party and towards the Milkovich home.

Mickey raises his eyebrows and shrugs, cocking his head slightly. “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to go back and get Debbie’s fuckin’ present -“

“Oh, right, the present _you_ forgot to bring in the first place?” Ian is quick to retort, causing Mickey to raise his eyebrows further in challenge; smirk playing at his lips.

Ian’s bitter because he had _told_  Mickey on the phone just a few hours prior not to forget Debbie’s gift, when Ian was helping set up for the party and Mickey was on his way to the Gallaghers’ from the Alibi. And what did Mickey do? He forgot Debbie’s goddamn gift.

Mickey rolls his eyes and walks ahead of Ian as he searches frantically for a cigarette. When one is firmly placed between his lips, Mickey only says, “fuck off,” but there’s no real heat in his voice. If there’s anything, it’s slight guilt. He lights his cigarette and takes a long drag.

Ian snorts and jogs to catch up with his - no matter how much Mickey tries to deny it - sensitive boyfriend. When he catches up, he levels his eyes with Mickey’s and says surely, “make me.” He’s staring intently, and Mickey knows he’s not bluffing.

Mickey huffs and blushes, shaking his head to deter Ian’s attention from the former two signs of fluster.

“You’re a fucking child,” Mickey chuckles, low and shy, as he takes the bottle of whiskey wrapped in a brown paper bag from his coat pocket and takes a sip; whatever it takes to distract himself from looking at the drunken ginger idiot at his side.

“It’s the alcohol,” Ian explains simply. He swipes the paper bag from Mickey’s grasp, stumbling as he does so.

Mickey laughs at Ian’s seeming shamelessness, watching the redhead’s Adam’s apple bob as he chugs the honey flavored Jack Daniel’s that they had taken from Frank’s possession before leaving the party (“Tastes even _better_  than Jack and OJ, I _promise_  you,” the drunk had said). Sure, Mickey can probably drink his boyfriend under the table - but fuck, look at him; being so unabashed, with Mickey, in the middle of the fucking South Side. Mickey’s terrified, though he knows there’s not much to be terrified of anymore, but it’s just mere instinct. Instinct to flee. Instinct to run.

Mickey quickly looks around, scanning the area, calculating the safest routes to home or back to the Gallaghers’. You know, in case someone decides to pop up out of nowhere and jump them - and not simply for the sake of jumping. Nah, Mickey’s terrified that any possible thug wanting to fuck them over might just want to beat the fag out of them; Ian and Mickey are that obvious, walking down the streets now, flirting and pushing and drunk.

Calculating is Mickey’s thing. What brings in most profit? What kind of illegal work has the least risk and the highest probability of outcome? How long will it take to get to this address? How many ounces of cocaine is worth how much, and where in the neighborhood can you make the most dealing? Mickey can answer any of, all of, and more than that.

Before he dropped out, Mickey would calculate the best time to cut and leave school so that he wouldn’t have to come home to Terry. He’s calculated the amount of times his father has beaten him and has approximated the probabilities of one of Terry’s blows being the final one. Oh, how many times Mickey had wished that the probabilities of that fatal blow would higher than the probability of waking up the next day to blue bruises and fractured bones.

He’s learned to watch his own back on the streets. Nowhere is Mickey Milkovich not wary. He turns a corner, takes note of all the alleyways and possible areas of ambush - he calculates. He’s done this for so long, he doesn’t even stop now - even when he knows he’s safest with Ian.

And that’s why this is weird. This, what they’re doing right now, is an unbalanced equation that Mickey can’t seem to put right or make sense of. And he knows full well that is because of the new, sure variable in his life - Ian fucking Gallagher. His goddamn ginger has put the whole thing out of whack.

Because Ian is a fucking enigma, to Mickey at least, no matter how much the redhead spills his fucking guts. Ian Gallagher is like a damn magic puzzle that changes its image every time you put a piece together. He’s hot one morning -  _so_ hot today, Mickey doesn’t fail to remember - and now he’s cool and playful. Tonight, he might be ready to pin Mickey against the wall in a polar opposite mood than how he’s acting now, or maybe he’ll want Mickey to fuck him, dominate him, like he wanted last night.

Mickey fucking hates it. Not Ian, of course, and what Mickey thinks of his bipolarity is a discussion for another day. No…he hates the inequality of the equation. It’s always been so easy for him to know what equates what. Terry = fucked up ribs. Mandy + douchebag = broken heart probably with physical bruises to match. Mother = disappointment.

Mickey + Ian = who the fuck can figure it out if not either of them? Mickey fucking hates that.

Only, he doesn’t.

What he hates is that he’s felt so okay with knowing the routine of abuse so damn well for so damn long. He hates that he’s okay with never feeling fully safe, so that whenever Ian is around and Mickey’s so sure he can never find a safer place, he feels guilty. Like he doesn’t belong; like he doesn’t deserve having that kind of spontaneity in his life, a spontaneity that, if it’s sure of anything, it is that Mickey will be accepted and loved no matter what happens. 

It still doesn’t make any fucking sense, though. It just doesn’t add up.

Maybe he should take himself out of the equation and things will even out. He considers doing that sometimes. It’s instinct, after all.

But that’s not going to happen. If Mickey runs, he won’t be free anymore, no matter where he goes. If he runs, he’ll never be as happy as he is now - celebrating Christmas at the Gallaghers’, finding a real family for himself that extends from Mandy, and finding a home for Ian. If he runs, he loses everything that he’s come to love with every fiber in his angry, abused being.

If he’s going to run, ain’t no way in hell Mickey is going to leave Ian behind. Not this time. Not ever again.

So the equation remains unbalanced, and Mickey begins to think that maybe this disproportion is something he should start becoming okay with.

Ian lets out a burning sigh and burps after he brings his hand with the bottle down, breaking Mickey from his train of thought. Ian wipes his mouth and feigns returning the bottle. When Mickey reaches out to take it, Ian yanks it back, making Mickey fall against Ian’s arm. Ian only smirks down at the shorter man, making Mickey blush more than he already is thanks to the cold. He’s caught in Ian’s gaze - such a warm, warm, warm gaze -  for many moments before he realizes he’s still leaning against the redhead.

Mickey grunts and shoves off. Ian whines at the loss.

“ _Noooo_ , you were so warm against me,” Ian slurs, “felt _soooo_ good.” He pouts cutely, and Mickey has to look away from those red lips, juxtaposed perfectly against flushed freckled skin. God, does Ian know what he does to him?

Ian reaches his hands towards Mickey playfully but doesn’t quite touch him, making the brunette laugh and look away, but Ian himself can’t look away from Mickey’s amazing smile. How can a smile do that? Just radiate like that? So wide; almost literally ear to ear. So beautiful; lips beckoning Ian forward. So…happy.

“Too warm…” Ian murmurs, obviously shivering as he crosses his arms, but Mickey thinks he’s overdramatizing. When Mickey’s smile dies down to a toothless smirk, Ian claps his hands loud. “Do it again!” He smiles prettily, making Mickey fluster and look away once more, unable to find many words.

“Fuck. Off.” Mickey manages finally, slugging down another shot of the Jack. Ian pouts even more, and Mickey side-eyes him up and down, chuckling, finally letting himself enjoy the drunken, cheery Ian by his side. He feels like he’s gotta backpedal somehow because he’s indulged himself too much in the view - gotta let this ginger fucker know that he’s not gonna lean into him like they’re some fag couple.

The fact that they are is not the point.

Mickey eyes Ian while the redhead looks down like a defeated puppy. Mickey chuckles lowly before figuring out a string of words that wouldn’t make him sound completely fucking whipped.

“Yeah, well, I wish the alcohol would make you less of a child and more warm, then maybe you’d stop bitching about the cold,” Mickey says finally, drinking more, feigning nonchalance.

Ian only narrows his eyes at his boyfriend, humphs, and whips his head dramatically to look forward. Honestly, if the kid is trying to make Mickey feel bad, he should try not being so cute.

They continue walking down the street in silence, only passing the bottle of liquor back and forth between them. They turn the corner on North Wallace when Mickey realizes it’s been eerily quiet for far too long. He realizes soon that’s because the redhead by his side is not speaking.

Mickey has the bottle to his mouth when he turns to finally look at his boyfriend, and when he does, he nearly chokes on the alcohol. What he sees is the most hilarious sight since seeing Debbie curse out Fiona for tossing her room.  
  
Ian’s face is beet red and scrunched up in the most childish expression of dissatisfaction Mickey’s ever seen, probably due to a mixture of the alcohol in his system, his annoyance at Mickey, and the biting cold. He’s biting the inside of his mouth in the way that screws his lips to the side and hollows his cheek. He’s breathing from his nose so harshly he looks like a sleeping dragon with how his breathe vaporizes into the air with fervor.

His arms are locked, shoves fiercely in his coat, stretching the fabric with his motion, and he’s shrugging his shoulders petulantly. That’s right, like a fucking child. All because Mickey wouldn’t lean into him? Mickey fucking wonders if he’s actually gay, because it’s like he’s dating the girliest of girls here, Jesus fucking Christ. The best part? Ian’s got out The Chin.

But the sight before him still makes Mickey smile - like, _really_  smile. He’s smiling so wide his teeth ache because the cold air is blowing right into them. His eyes are stinging because he hasn’t blinked in a whole minute; not wanting to miss the shiver in Ian’s shoulder or the slight shifting of his jaw. It’s everything Mickey loves taking out from Ian - this playful silence game. It means the makeup will be all that much worth it. Just like it will be now.

Mickey bites his tongue, figuring he won’t do much but patronize the cute redhead if he laughs in his face. He considers, licking his lips, feeling the burn of the cold on it after a moment. He decides.  
  
They continue walking, and Mickey holds his breath as he slowly gets closer to Ian with every step. When he’s flush side by side with Ian, the redhead grunts and looks down, but Mickey seems unperturbed, biting his lip and looking to the side and the sky and anywhere besides Ian’s general area.  
  
“Mickey, what are you - ?” he pauses, voice breaking off, legitimately taken aback by what Mickey does next.  
  
Mickey finally looks up at Ian, toothless grin in place, flirtation screaming in his eyes, as he slowly runs his hand down Ian’s coated forearm - Ian feels the fire in the touch nonetheless. 

His fingers trail slowly down Ian’s arm until they meet with Ian’s long digits, warmly tucked within his own coat. Then Mickey smiles, looking up from their invisible joined hands up into wide green eyes.

“There. You happy now?” Though Mickeys feels warm in his chest and stomach, he’s not sure it’s just from the whiskey.

Ian’s mouth falls open as he looks from blue eyes to his pocket where their lands lie. And then, ever so subtly, he closes his mouth, beckoning Mickey’s eyes towards it. He smiles, and so does Mickey in return. They both sigh, settling in the comfort they were never allowed to indulge themselves not too long ago. The cold fades away, and the frigidity Mickey gave Ian before is nowhere to be found.

Mickey, not at all feeling like he’s in the middle of a cold, snowy, Chicago night anymore, leans more into Ian, chasing the heat.

**Author's Note:**

> ~Love,  
> [Secret Santa](http://halseystr.tumblr.com)


End file.
